


Misconstrued

by RosYourBoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John really should've listened to Sherlock and taken the bloody umbrella.</p><p>This fic is incomplete, and will remain so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misconstrued

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "Misconstrued" was written in November of 2011 and is incomplete. It will remain so.

_Should’ve listened to Sherlock._

It was a rather common refrain for John Watson. Despite Sherlock’s inability (or unwillingness) to follow some of the most basic and obvious of social cues, he was nearly always correct when making observations on subjects he knew very well; which, apparently, includes weather patterns.

“Are you sure you want to go out? It’s likely to rain buckets in the next hour or so.” Sherlock had said as John pulled his coat on and wrapped a scarf (Sherlock’s favorite blue one) around his neck. John had paused and huffed in irritation.

“And how do you know that? You haven’t been outside the flat all day. In fact, I don’t think you’ve even opened the curtains to have a look out for days!”

Sherlock had lolled his head over from its position facing the ceiling and wrapped his blue dressing gown tighter around himself. “Come now, John, you know what I’m like after a major case; the downward spiral is dreadful.”

“Yes, well, downward spiral or not, we need some food desperately. We don’t even have any tea left! Or bread, or milk, or greens, and we can’t eat take-out every night…” John continued mumbling to himself absently as he left, interrupting himself with a sneeze halfway down the landing.

“Don’t forget my chocolate biscuits! And don’t get them wet!” Sherlock had called after him, and now John was fighting to do just that as he struggled up the sidewalk in the virtual downpour that began nearly the second he left the grocers. He might have avoided the rain entirely if it hadn’t been for the difficulty he’d had with the chip-and-pin machine, just barely avoiding another shouting row by the hasty intervention of a sales assistant.

John sneezed again as he reached 221, so hard that his sinuses hurt, and he groaned miserably. He set down the bags in his left hand to fish out his key and wipe his forehead and eyes clear of the water that ran in free rivulets down his body before opening the door and shuffling inside with all of his things. Shutting the door behind him, he leaned against it to catch his breath and listen to the rain falling in a light roar just beyond the wood. His wounded shoulder resonated with a deep, throbbing ache that was on the verge of becoming a piercing pain if he didn’t rest it soon.

“Sherlock!” He called, hoping that his recalcitrant flatmate would deign to help him with the groceries for once. He wasn’t surprised when he received no answer to his second call, either. With a shake of his head, John gathered up the bags once more and heaved himself up the stairs, narrowly avoiding slipping in his own pool of water and breaking his neck. Instead, he wrenched his shoulder against the wall in a move that left him gasping with spots in his eyes.

He made the last few steps through sheer will and dropped the bags just inside the kitchen door. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes tightly against the pain, breathing slow, tight breaths through his teeth.

“Should’ve listened to me,” Sherlock said, presumably from his place on the couch where he hadn’t moved. Fabric rustled against the leather couch and Sherlock’s voice moved closer. “That rain sounds ghastly; I can hear you dripping from over here. Did you bring my biscuits, John? John?” Sherlock paused in the doorway to the kitchen before quickly striding to John’s side.

“Are you alright?” The cool, unaffected tone of voice was dropped and some of Sherlock’s concern was apparent in his hesitant touch to John’s arm. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock right up in his personal space, eyes darting up and down his body. “You hurt your shoulder. Did you fall? No, no, you’re clothes are perfectly clean, just wet. But it’s more than the usual pain from the weather, right?”

John nodded and stiffly moved away from the wall and into the living room, pulling off Sherlock’s scarf to drape over his armchair. “Yeah, wrenched it coming up the stairs. Hurts like the bloody devil—ah, ah!” He hissed warningly as Sherlock came over to help him carefully remove his wet jacket. Once that was off, they had to face the jumper John had unwisely worn underneath it.

John held his arms up while Sherlock pulled it over his head, the heavy wet material dragging the shirt underneath over as well so that he was shirtless and gasping when it cleared his head. He felt his face whiten from the pain and he swayed drunkenly, barely hearing his jumper hit the floor with a wet slap before Sherlock was a warm presence at his right side. The consulting detective wrapped his arm around John’s waist and steadied him. John shivered, feeling goosebumps race over his skin and peak his nipples at the cold.

“John, sit down before you fall down,” Sherlock was saying. John shook his head and resisted Sherlock’s guidance toward the sofa.

“No, I just want to have a bath and sleep. If I sit down while I’m this cold, my shoulder’ll stiffen up and I won’t be able to move it properly for days. No, no, I can do it,” he said when Sherlock moved to help him. “Just take care of the groceries, will you? The eggs’ve probably broken.” He muttered to himself as he made his way to the bath, trailing his fingers along the wall in case he was hit by another dizzy spell.

Once in the loo, he set the hot water filling the bath while he stripped off his sodden jeans with difficulty, followed by his pants. He’d just sat on the closed toilet lid, shivering violently, when there came a tap at the door and Sherlock breezed in without waiting for a response.

“Sherlock!” John protested, but it was without much heat. Honestly, Sherlock had never had a sense of privacy or personal space (whether it was his own or other’s) and the tap on the door, perfunctory though it was, was actually an improvement. Not like it mattered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when John reflexively dragged a towel over his lap. “Oh, please, John, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. We’ve seen each other naked under some circumstance or another often enough that it shouldn’t matter.”

“Maybe I’m afraid that the cold isn’t showing me to advantage.” John smiled crookedly, acknowledging Sherlock’s point. Sherlock made a face.

“You didn’t seem so worried when I dragged you out of the Thames last month and stripped you naked on the shore.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” John demurred, taking the steaming mug and pills that Sherlock handed him. “Paracetamol _and_ tea? You’re a saint.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly that, John. Get in the bath.”

John swallowed the pills and handed back the mug long enough to climb carefully into the bath, uncaring of his nakedness. He hissed in pained pleasure when the almost-too-hot water stung his skin, making his muscles jump in the indecision of tensing or relaxing. Once he was settled facing the tiled wall across the short width of the tub with his legs crossed and his back to Sherlock, the consulting detective handed him the mug over his shoulder. There was the sound of a lid clicking open and the scent of pine and wildflowers before Sherlock’s long slender fingers slid over the back of his neck and set to gently massaging the tense muscles there.

John groaned in pleasure and leaned into the touch, feeling the tension in his body unwind through the hot water, steaming tea, and Sherlock’s massage. The small room was quiet but for the slick slide of skin against skin and the lap of water around John’s waist, punctuated by John’s small sounds of relief. The pleasurable sensations, the slow retreat of pain, and the warmth quickly seeping back into his body combined to make his penis plump in appreciation, its slightly reddened head bobbing cheerfully above the water.

He ignored it. He was perfectly aware of what this scene looked like. He knew that if anyone were to walk in now they would have a hard time believing that he and Sherlock were merely platonic friends and flatmates. It was true, he supposed, that he and Sherlock _weren’t_ “just” platonic friends and flatmates, not the way normal people were. They were much more than that; they were best friends, partners in solving crime, brothers in arms. They trusted each other with their lives in a way that normal people rarely experienced off of the battlefield, and more; they trusted each other with their vulnerable moments and eccentricities and ragged emotions with a permanence and consistency that even the military rarely called for.

It had been nearly three years since they had moved into Baker Street together, weathering dangerous serial killers, playful criminal masterminds, drunken sisters, meddling brothers, and brushes with death alongside the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of a solved case, and the vibrant connection that flared between them, binding them ever closer together through the highs and lows and everything in between. It was no wonder that the good officers of the Met thought that they went home and shagged like rabbits at the end of a bright eyed, red-cheeked chase resulting in an arrest.

But they weren’t. Shagging, that is.

John tipped his head back and let out a tight groan as Sherlock dug clever fingers into the knot just below the entry scar. Sherlock was close enough behind him that John’s head rested against his shoulder and he felt the other man dip his head to brush his mouth across his hair and let out a little hum of contentment.

No, they weren’t shagging. John was bisexual and dated fairly often, although it rarely went beyond a hurried pull in a pub with a hand- or blowjob at the end that was firmly no strings attached. He hadn’t had a proper shag in… he didn’t want to think how long. At least six months. And while that would have driven his younger self insane, he found that he was actually indifferent—if not pleased—with the situation. He found that his emotional needs—which were far more important to him when he returned from Afghanistan with issues a mile long, the least of which being sexual impotency that lasted until well after his relationship with Sarah ended—were somehow being met with Sherlock as they became closer, and the physical release of an orgasm became less urgent.

And he felt like that, at least, was reciprocated in Sherlock. By killing the cabbie for his new roommate that first night, John had inadvertently achieved a regard from Sherlock that would have otherwise taken months—if not years—to gain. By killing the cabbie (and he _had_ aimed to kill the cabbie—he was a crack shot and could have aimed to injure), John had shown that he felt that Sherlock—whom he had known for only a few short hours, most of which Sherlock had been buried deep in his callous mid-case persona—was worth saving, worth protecting, worth killing for to ensure that he wasn’t threatened by that particular cabbie again. John hadn’t left after that whirlwind night and he hadn’t left a few short months later when he was exposed to Sherlock at his most callous, toying with innocents’ lives in his game with Moriarty. And when he had Moriarty in a stranglehold in an attempt to give Sherlock time to escape despite all that had gone before, John had managed to cross a line into Sherlock’s heart as very few—if any—had done before. And in that moment, he had become precious to Sherlock, and Moriarty was not allowed to touch anything precious of Sherlock’s.

Things had progressed quickly after that. Moriarty had been taken care of, and Sherlock and John had taken care of each other when they had been released from the ensuing hospital visit. Eventually, Sherlock became more physically affectionate; touching John’s arm or hand or leg to get his attention, sitting close under a blanket while watching telly, massaging John’s shoulder when it was stiff, even squeezing a hand or pressing his lips to John’s skin in a gesture of comfort or affection as the years passed. Any weak semblance of personal space he had clung onto vanished completely under Sherlock’s persistent assault. A hidden well of desire for physical touch was revealed to John, who had quickly needed to assimilate and accept the shift in their relationship; something that wasn’t lost on those they associated with regularly.

Of course, they had gotten it wrong. Those who hadn’t believed they were in a sexual relationship before certainly believed they were by now, and John had given up trying to convince anyone otherwise. No one would believe him, anyway, and they would go on believing whatever they wanted to believe. In this, John had to agree with Sherlock; sometimes, people really were idiots.

He felt that it should be fairly obvious to anyone who bothered looking that Sherlock was asexual. Or as close to it as John could see. They hadn’t spoken about it directly, but Sherlock’s firm rebuff the night they had met and the notable absence of romantic attachments in the following months made it clear to John that Sherlock had meant it when he said that he was married to his work and wasn’t looking for… anything. And John was perfectly content with that. Sherlock was Sherlock, and John was John, and anyone who didn’t believe or understand that could shove it.

“John. John, wake up. I’m finished.” Sherlock’s amused voice broke John from his reverie. He lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder and blinked a few times to help clear his head. Sherlock reached into the tub to pluck the empty tea mug from where it was perched on John’s knee and John caught his hand to press a grateful kiss to his wrist in thanks before shifting over so that he could stretch out along the tub and fall back into a doze. He heard Sherlock chuckle and leave the room.

He woke what seemed like minutes later to cooling water and Sherlock pissing into the toilet not twelve inches from his head. He flinched to the side and covered his eyes with a groan because, honestly, there were lines you just didn’t cross with a flatmate, no matter what he had been thinking earlier.

“Oh, come on—Sherlock!” John said, his voice nearing a whine.

“Oh, good, you’re finally awake. It’s been nearly an hour since I left you,” Sherlock said as he finished, shook off, and tucked himself away again while flushing the toilet. “I was wondering if you’d planned to stay there the whole night.”

“So you decided to waltz in and use the loo next to my head?” John said peevishly as he sat up and shivered a little in the cool air.

“This _is_ the only loo we have, John,” Sherlock pointed out. John grunted and waved that away, waiting for Sherlock to wash his hands and leave before getting out of the tub—his shoulder really did feel much better, bless his boundary-impaired friend—and sleepily brushing his teeth. He drained the tub and used the loo himself. His body felt unnaturally heavy outside of the water and he barely managed to scrub a towel over his body before wrapping it around his waist and retreating to his room. He immediately dropped the towel and crawled under the sheets naked, intent only on regaining the heat he had lost in the trip from the loo.

He dropped off to sleep minutes later and slept dreamlessly, unaware of Sherlock creeping in to check on him or the affectionate smile that crossed his face.

* * *

John woke to a raging fever and a parched throat and swollen sinuses.  _Water,_ was the only coherent thought in his head and he quickly levered himself up and out of the bed. He was unprepared for the dizzy spell that made him stumble as his knees buckled beneath him and hit the floor with a sharp thump. Pain shot up his right leg and his dry throat choked on a pained cry, sending him into a coughing fit that left him bent over on himself, shaking and stunned.

He heard the thumps of footsteps taking the stairs two at a time before his door was pushed open. Sherlock—it must be Sherlock—crouched before him and grasped his bare shoulders. Oh, right. He was naked. Honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was more concerned with the sandpaper he had somehow managed to swallow in the night.

“John! John, come on, get back into bed. You completely missed the fact that I left water for you on your night table, I see; really, John, I thought your observation skills had improved since our association.” Sherlock’s hands were gentle despite his words, helping John to sit on the edge of the bed and pressing a tall glass filled with water into his hands. An involuntary sound of gratefulness escaped John’s throat as he took the glass and downed most of it in a few quick gulps. Sherlock was still talking.

“Oh, lovely, I see that you didn’t make it into any clothes last night; we’d better fix that before Mrs. Hudson comes in to check on you later. The blasted woman hardly needs more encouragement where we’re concerned.” The water was cool and perfect, but when he finally stopped drinking it seemed to slosh heavily in his stomach and he set it down with a groan. Cautiously, he lay back against his pillows and curled in on himself on his side in the midst of the rumpled blankets and comforter, trying to soothe his grumbling tummy. He was already falling asleep again.

The tug of cloth being pulled around his feet made him flinch.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock’s deep voice, reminiscent of soft charcoal at normal times, was particularly soothing to John’s frazzled brain and he fell limp again, letting Sherlock maneuver was felt like underwear up his legs. He groaned fitfully when Sherlock tapped his hip, but managed to wriggle enough to allow Sherlock to pull them up to cover his arse and soft prick.

Opening one eye, John saw that Sherlock had chosen his most embarrassing pair of pants—bright red y-fronts with white edging that Harry had gotten him before his deployment and were somewhat tight—and he groaned in annoyance.

“ _Sherlock…_ you arse,” he muttered into his pillow, reaching down to adjust his scrotum so it wasn’t being pinched by the leg hem. He thought he heard the other man snicker, but missed his snarky response as he fell back asleep.

The day passed in a hazy blur. He woke some undefined time later needing to use the loo badly. After stumbling back into his room, he saw that his phone was blinking at him from his night table, indicating that he had a new text.

_Got a new case from Lestrade. Will be gone most of the day, but enlisted Mrs. Hudson in checking on you. Will be back tonight. –SH_

John groaned and rolled back under the sheets. He slept again.

When he next woke, it was to voices in the living room downstairs. Squinting at his phone, he saw that it was just past two in the afternoon. His thirst was raging again, but at least his other symptoms didn’t seem worse. He checked his night table this time and saw that he must have missed a visit from Mrs. Hudson, as there was a glass of water, a plate of toast and crackers and biscuits, paracematol, and a thermometer.

The voices hadn’t left. He hoped they would; he didn’t feel up to dealing with Sherlock and his antics. He took two pills and guzzled down the water, but somehow missed the night table entirely when he went to set it down. He watched in what seemed like slow motion as his hand released the glass, which then proceeded to bounce off the edge of the night table and shatter on the floor. He groaned at himself in frustration, unable to believe he had done that.

For a while, he contemplated leaving the mess and making Sherlock clean it up when he got home, but the likelihood of John himself stepping on it later in a feverish dash to the loo made him reconsider. Carefully, he pulled the covers away from himself and knelt on the floor next to his bed. He was just picking up the largest piece when his door burst open.

Startled, John whirled and leapt to his feet, gripping the shard tighter in his hand to use as a possible weapon. _Stupid,_ he thought to himself, _Forgot the voices, forgot the gun—defenceless!_

But even as he fell into a defensive stance and turned his body to make a harder target, he recognized the intruders that were even now lowering their guns.

“John?”

“Lestrade?” John croaked, blankly, and straightened. “Sergeant Donovan? What’re you two doin’ ‘ere?”

“Well, we thought you were being attacked up here, didn’t we? Are you alright?”

“Er…” John was distracted by the way they were staring at him, and he realized that he was nearly naked except for his embarrassingly ugly pants. The sergeant seemed torn between staring at the mottled crater in his shoulder and his crotch and was sweeping everything in between appreciatively along the way. John felt a blush rise to his cheeks. As much as her scrutiny bolstered his self confidence, he needed to put a stop to it right away. “’ang on.”

He swept his dressing grown from the foot of his bed at pulled it on. Sally sniggered.

“Nice pants, John. Don’t cover up on my account.”

“Never for you, Sally; it’s Lestrade I’m protecting my virtue from,” John joked weakly. Strength exhausted, he sat back down on the bed and squinted up at them. “Sorry, I’ve been ill all day. Are you looking for Sherlock?”

Lestrade shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, but obviously he’s not here. He hasn’t told you anything, has he?”

John glanced at his quiescent cell phone and shook his head.

“Right,” Lestrade sighed, looking frustrated but resigned. “It was a long shot, anyway. He’s been a right terror without you; wouldn’t even tell us where you’d gone. Anyway, we’d better run. Sorry about barging in on you, mate. Anything we can get you?”

John waved them off. “No, no, I’m fine, thanks. Mrs. Hudson is checking in on me every once in a while. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Cheers.”

They bid him goodbye and tramped down the stairs, leaving him sitting on the bed with a broken glass on the floor. His normally neat and responsible side was fighting a losing battle with whatever sickness he had. Deciding he would have to take the risk of stepping on the glass later, John merely rolled himself into his sheets again and fell asleep.

When he woke next, it was due to a warm hand grasping his and a wet cloth being pressed to the skin of his palm. He took a moment to orient himself, noting that he felt much better despite the vague throbbing of his head and his scratchy throat. Twisting his face away from where it was pressed into the pillow, he squinted up from the mountain of blankets from which he had made a rumpled nest. He wasn’t surprised to see Sherlock.

“Hey,” he croaked, wincing. He sounded like he had COPD. Sort of felt like it, too. Sherlock barely spared him a glance of those pale eyes before focusing on John’s hand again.

“You cut your hand on broken glass. I gather from the glass still on the floor and the blood smeared all over your sheets that you were less than fully cognizant at the time and either didn’t register the pain or didn’t care enough to treat it properly before falling asleep again. I assume the former, since you of all people would be least likely to leave a wound untreated and still bleeding.”

John was silent for a moment while he processed the flood of words from his flatmate. He had gotten far better at understanding Sherlock’s rapid-fire commentary than at the beginning, mostly through necessity, but he found that his brain functions were noticeably slowed by illness.

“Oh, right,” he said finally, shifting to curl on his side facing Sherlock and letting his eyes fall half-closed while Sherlock continued tending to his hand. Though the stinging hurt, he didn’t think it felt too serious. “I dropped the glass of water and it broke. Was Lestrade here?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched with amusement even as his eyes narrowed, annoyed. “Yes. You should know that Sergeant Donovan has spread the word about your frankly alarming choice in pants—” He ignored John’s mortified groan that he muffled by burying his face in his pillow again. “And it’s hardly a testament to her abilities and professionalism as a Detective Sergeant when she notices what pants you’re wearing but completely fails to note the blood dripping from your palm. Morons, the both of them.” He was definitely hacked off, perhaps more than John would have expected, but his hands were gentle as he finished cleaning and sterilizing the cut and bound it up with some gauze.

“Mmm.” John hummed in a lazy response. He captured Sherlock’s hand before it left his bandage and pressed it to his lips in thanks. Sherlock stiffened, an unusual response by this point in their relationship, but it passed before John could comment on it. Sherlock’s eyes softened, any trace of annoyance leaving him, and he ran his hand through John’s hair. John let out a pleased grunt.

“You’re feeling better,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question, but John nodded anyway.

“Yep, just a 24-hour bug, probably. Which means,” he dragged himself upright with a grunt, grimacing at the small amount of blood he had indeed managed to smear across his sheets. “That I should clean up a bit. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked as John began stripping the sheets off the bed. John nodded readily, finding that he was starving after hardly eating or drinking all day; the hunger was another positive sign that he was getting over the bug, despite how poorly he had taken care of himself while Sherlock was away.

“Oh, how’d the case go?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. He was already nearly out the door and searching through the contacts on his phone for the nearest Chinese restaurant. “Later,” he called as he vanished down the stairs.

John puttered around the room, bundling up the dirty sheets and replacing them with clean ones from the closet, cleaning up the glass and blood from the floor, opening the window to air out the faint musty smell of sickness, and finally taking himself off to shower. By the time he emerged from the lukewarm shower, he was feeling much more human and his stomach was grumbling as he smelled the Chinese wafting up the stairs.

Clad in his striped bathrobe, with a towel draped around his neck to capture the drops of water from his still-damp hair, John went down the stairs and collapsed on the couch with a grateful sigh. His muscles still felt weak and watery.

The Chinese was on the coffee table, still in its boxes. There was no sign of Sherlock in the kitchen, but John could hear rustling and thumps coming from his room; probably updating his case index, John thought.

“Come and eat! I’m not going to wait until it gets cold,” he called. There was no response, but a moment later Sherlock emerged from his room. He was still wearing his posh shirt and trousers—honestly, John didn’t know anyone else who wore £500 suits as comfortably as Sherlock did; as if they were a foregone conclusion—but his feet were bare, which was rare enough to make John smile each time he saw it.

His smile faltered when Sherlock sat in his square black chair rather than on the couch next to him, where they usually ate take away from the boxes so as to ensure the ease of sharing.

“What are you doing over there? Come on,” he said, pulling open the boxes and making sounds of pleasure as he smelled some of his favorite dishes. There was plenty enough for two, meaning Sherlock had ordered for both of them and was going to eat with him tonight. He handed Sherlock a plastic fork when the man dropped down onto the couch next to him. John brought a box of noodles up beneath his chin as he took his first bite and eyed Sherlock’s tense frame next to him.

“What’s wrong?” He finally asked after long minutes of silence. At Sherlock’s look, he elaborated, “Something must be wrong. You’ve been home for ages, but you haven’t been following me around expounding on your own brilliance or on the stupidity of Scotland Yard and criminals alike. You’ve finished the case, obviously, since you’re eating, but you haven’t even told me what it was; so, again: what’s wrong?”

“Your deductions are fascinating,” Sherlock sneered, his body still and his food apparently forgotten. “But, as usual, they are erroneous and completely incorrect. Please spare me your mindless, incessant prattling for one night, won’t you?”

Ouch. While Sherlock often disparaged John’s attempts at deducting, it was usually in a distracted or teasing manner, not in a mean, pointed stab like this. Apparently John had hit a hidden nerve, and even after three years he hated feeling like for all the times he and Sherlock worked and lived together like a seamless unit, there were still times when having a conversation with the man was like navigating a minefield.

Without a word, John picked up the remote from the table by their takeaway and turned on the telly. He ignored Sherlock and kept eating so that he wouldn’t say something rash and inflammatory. His anger had always been difficult to control—especially when he knew he was right, damn it—but he knew that there must be some reason for Sherlock’s sudden coldness when less than an hour ago he had tenderly been caring for John’s hand. He simply had to wait for Sherlock to unbend enough for John find out why.

Almost thirty minutes later, as John was barely picking at what was left of his food and contemplating the idea of getting up for a drink, Sherlock spoke abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said, some of the stiffness gone out of his tone but still uncomfortable with having to apologize. He rarely had to do it out loud. “You were right, something is bothering me. But it’s none of your concern.”

John gave him a look that said he didn’t believe him. “Does this thing have the ability to injure, maim, kill, or in any way inflict physical or emotional disaster on yourself or others?” Sherlock rolled his eyes but shook his head. John nodded, letting it go. Sherlock had apologized, after all, which was rare enough that John knew he meant it. “Alright, fine.”

And that was that. John would have said more, but he was feeling sleepy again and he was so full that he was on the verge of being uncomfortable, which made him want to curl up against something and be quiet and still. For now, he settled for just quiet and still while Sherlock sat beside him, his long thin legs curled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them like a child. John was relieved that, no matter how complicated things could get in their lives, the communication between he and Sherlock was always simple and straightforward.

Eventually, John tucked himself into the corner of the couch with his back against the armrest and dozed lightly, shoving his bare toes under Sherlock’s bum and listening to the low sounds of the telly and Sherlock occasionally tapping away at his phone or laptop. It seemed like ages since he was sniffling and worried about a possible head cold while rushing to Tesco’s for Sherlock’s chocolate biscuits and milk.

He was startled into wakefulness some minutes later by Sherlock speaking. “Lestrade is coming, something to do with the case today.”

“Hmm,” John hummed, shifting further into the couch and wiggling his toes absently. Sherlock tapped John’s knee in reproach before wrapping his hand around his bare ankle and stroking his thumb up and down. “I should get dressed then, should I?” He made no move to get up.

“No,” Sherlock corrected, “Well, yes, but I meant—” He was cut off by their door opening and John opened his eyes to see a grim Lestrade striding through, followed by Donovan, whose habitual sneer turned to a look of disbelief as she took in the cozy tableau on the couch. To Lestrade’s credit, he only seemed slightly phased.

“I meant,” Sherlock continued, giving the staring detectives a glare, “That they were coming up _now_ , though I didn’t imagine they would be so rude as to walk in unannounced.”

“Sherlock,” John hissed, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. It wasn’t so much that he was practically cuddling with Sherlock with his toes still under his bum—he had been resigned to all of his actions with Sherlock, no matter how innocent, being misconstrued—as it was that John was only in his bathrobe and wholly unprepared for guests. He sat up, halfway through apologizing and offering tea, when Sherlock squeezed his ankle to make him stop.

“Relax, John, you’re still recovering from your illness. Besides, I hardly think this is a social visit. What is now, Lestrade? Has the NSY reached some hitherto unknown low of incompetence?”

Lestrade shook his head and somehow managed to look both uncomfortable and concerned. “No, not like you’d believe me, but we followed your leads to the letter and showed up where they were supposed to be, and… Look, Sherlock, if there’s something you’re not telling us—”

“Of course not, the answer was as plain as the nose on Anderson’s face, don’t blame me if your lot can’t catch a cold much less a—”

“You were wrong!” Donovan blurted, seemingly unable to hold herself back any longer. Smug triumph was practically radiating off of her. “You got it wrong, freak; we followed your stupid leads and no one was at the docks; didn’t even look like anyone had been there for weeks, much less using it as their ‘base of operations.’” Her tone was dripping with scorn.

“What? What do you mean no one was there?” Sherlock said sharply, his grip tightening almost painfully on John’s ankle.

“Just what I said, you—” Lestrade waved a sharp hand to shut Donovan up and turned his attention to Sherlock, his face crumpling back to grimness and concern.

“She’s right; the place was deserted. No signs of anyone even setting foot in the place for weeks; no footprints, no tyre tracks, no signs of cleaning up in a rush; even the lock was bloody well rusted shut. Sherlock, are you sure you read the clues right?”

Sherlock had gotten up from the couch and was pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table while Lestrade spoke, thoughts racing frantically through his brain. John, now fully awake and watching the proceedings with disbelief, turned off the telly. There were times when Sherlock couldn’t solve a case, true, or when his minor deductions were inaccurate due to no particular fault of his own (“Your sister! There’s always something.”), but very rarely was his final solution ever just point blank _wrong_.

The very concept seemed to be whipping Sherlock into a frenzy; he continued to pace and mutter to himself, occasionally snapping questions at Lestrade and ignoring John and Donovan completely. John took the opportunity to slip upstairs and put on clothes; he had the feeling Sherlock would be out on the streets again tonight and he wanted to be with him, especially with how agitated Sherlock appeared to be. The adrenaline in John’s system assured him that he could keep up despite dealing with the tail end of his illness and any set back in his recovery was well worth ensuring that Sherlock and any gloating detectives didn’t tear each other apart.

“JOHN!” Sherlock bellowed up the stairs just as John was tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans underneath his sweater. He hurried down the stairs and pulled his jacket on while the detectives—consulting and otherwise—swept down the stairs. Lestrade had brought an unmarked police car and John and Sherlock piled into the back; Sherlock, it seemed, was just agitated enough to break his strict “cab-only” rule.

“Are you going to explain to me what this is all about?” John asked quietly as they drove. At Sherlock’s impatient expression, he pressed, “Not only do I want to know what I’m getting myself into, I also think it might help for you to go through the whole case, straight from the beginning. Go on.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to develop into a friends-to-lovers fic. I might've liked to continue it with the idea of Sherlock being ace, though. Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


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